So, the scene should run something like this (although I should stress that there is no script or anything):

Lucy: “Oh my God, maths is such a boring lesson. I can’t believe Mrs. Wilkins has just sprung a test on us for tomorrow! She’s out of order. No way am I going to be ready for that! Pete: “Well, there’s no point in getting stressed about it. You’ll be fine anyway.” Lucy: “Well, what about if you come round and give me a hand with some revision. You owe me anyway after I helped you do that French stuff.” Pete: “Yeah, but…oh alright. I suppose I do owe you one. When shall we do it then?” Lucy: “Just come round after school. I’ll send you a text, yeah?” Pete: OK, see you later.

And what actually happens is this:

Lucy: “Oh my God, maths is such a boring lesson. I can’t believe Mrs. Wilkins has just sprung a test on us for tomorrow! She’s out of order. No way am I going to be ready for that! Pete: (gulps, then in very quiet, tremulous, and totally ridiculous approximation of working-class teenager voice and awkward body-language to match involving strange repetitive shrug and bad gangster-machismo slouch) “Yeah… but you’ll be alright.” Lucy: (clearly shaken by simulation holocaust in front of her) “No, I won’t. I really need some help. Will you come round after school and give me hand with some revision? You owe me after I did that French stuff with you, after all.” Pete: (similar incomprehensible mannerisms etc) “Yeah, but…well… I suppose…maybe I …OK.” Lucy: (looking at me with genuine distaste, almost threatening me not to get any worse) “Alright then I’ll see you later. Send me a text or something.”

Now if that sounds bad, let me assure you that the real thing was approximately one thousand times worse. There was even a guy videoing it, which didn’t help much either. Unfortunately my recall of the whole thing is too good, because the imprint left by the overwhelming psychological trauma is so massive that I could fill page after page with details of the hideousness of it all, and I’m not sure it isn’t too soon to revisit the horror, even if I didn’t have other stupid things to do. I’ll just say that we had to do two more scenes, including one in which my dialogue, if it had been loud enough to hear, was so diluted by confusion and fear that it was devoid of words in the English language, and became instead a kind of terror-stricken mumble that only executioners usually get to hear. We also had to do the hotseat thing, and I was asked about who I fancied out of Lucy and Caroline and who I’d had sex with etc, and that wasn’t much fun. The third scene also involved Lucy having a go at me (I’d let her down by watching TV with Caroline rather than doing the revision thing, and then lied about it) and I although I was meant to try and front it out with her, I looked so scared that it didn’t work at all! Ah, the unending shame of it all!

Right, I’ll do a truncated version of the rest of the day and then I’m done.